


from russia, with love

by downmoon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, and a kiss, takes place after ep 3, there's drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8334268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downmoon/pseuds/downmoon
Summary: “Yuuri,” Victor whines, “you will drink with me, won’t you?”He has an excuse on the tip of his tongue, really, he does. He’s thinking about his bed, and another early practice in the morning, he should rest, he hasn’t slept in a day…But he can’t say no to Victor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the lowest circle of hell is a frozen wasteland and they made a skating rink out of it

He doesn’t drink.

He never has, much. He’s had sips of champagne, tastes of sake, American beer, yes, but there wasn’t time for it beyond those fleeting tastes on his tongue. In between training and performance, there was no one to take him out after a spectacular show, or a dismal one, so he just...didn’t.

So he’s woefully inexperienced and dreadfully underprepared for it when Victor plunks down a bottle of _something_ on the table and stares at him with unbridled excitement.

“Um…” Yuuri says. His brain is struggling to catch up with what’s happening. He was fine earlier, energetic, even. Winning the competition had set a giddiness alight in him, and he was untouchable, but the competition’s long over, and the warmth of home and a belly full of good food has drained the last shreds of energy out of him. He wants a hot bath and his bed.

“What is that?” he asks tentatively. The label is in what he guesses must be Russian, and the characters are blocky and painfully foreign to his sleep-deprived brain.

“Vodka,” Victor says without preamble, but he accents the syllables, so it comes out in heavy, crisp Russian.

“Vodka,” Yuuri tries slowly.

“To celebrate.”

Yuuri looks up at Victor’s bright face, and grimaces in return.

“Yuu _ri,”_ Victor whines, “you will drink with me, won’t you?”

“I don’t...really-”

“Yuuri, come on! We must toast to your performance today! Just one with me, please?”

He has an excuse on the tip of his tongue, really, he does. He’s thinking about his bed, and another early practice in the morning, he should rest, he hasn’t slept in a day…

But he can’t say no to Victor.

 _“One,”_ he says, looking away quickly when Victor absolutely beams with delight. Before Yuuri can even blink, Victor has two glasses between them and the bottle open. He pours the vodka quickly, and nudges one of the glasses across the table. Yuuri eyes it suspiciously.

“To Yuuri!” Victor trills out, raising his glass. It takes Yuuri a moment to realize he’s meant to tap his glass to Victor’s, and he does so cautiously. Victor is oblivious to his hesitation, and clinks their glasses together rather violently, so much so that Yuuri clutches his with both hands. Victor throws back his head and downs the drink before Yuuri can even think about taking a tentative sip.

When Victor finishes, and drops his glass hard enough to rattle the table, he’s back to staring at Yuuri expectantly. He swallows, forcing the sudden nerves that spike up with an audience, _Victor_ , no less, and delicately presses his mouth to the glass.

It _burns_ is his first thought. He snorts a little, overwhelmed by the taste filling his mouth. By some miracle, he manages to swallow it rather than spit it back into his glass.

“What _is_ that?” he nearly shouts when he can breathe again. Victor laughs openly at him, and pours himself another glass.

“Drink up, Yuuri. They’ll be no half-assed toasts while I’m here.”

Victor smiles, and brings his glass to his lips. Yuuri wrinkles his nose, and pushes his glasses up. He stares down at the drink, his belly giving a nervous little flip at the prospect of drinking more. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

He manages another sip, fighting down the urge to sputter as he swallows. Heat blooms in his chest, and it’s the oddest sensation. He can feel the vodka slipping down his throat, warming his core and settling in his stomach, zipping up his spine and loosening the cohesion of his thoughts.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Victor asks. Yuuri pushes his glasses up again. His face feels flushed already, and he plucks idly at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to alleviate the feeling of heat.

“It’s very strange,” he says. He presses the tips of his fingers to his cheeks, to feel just how hot they are.

Victor is smiling, in that secretive, indulgent way of his, propping his head up with an elbow on the table, glass held loosely by the rim.

“You’re so innocent, Yuuri,” Victor says, “it’s so sweet.”

“I’m not innocent,” Yuuri grumbles. It comes out as a whine, but he doesn’t have the capacity to care anymore. His head is starting to feel a little fuzzy. He’s never been drunk before, but he suspects this is what it feels like.

He looks up when Victor has no charming retort to his weak complaint. He’s rarely silent, always ready with a quip or a comment or the ability to casually eviscerate Yuuri with his appraisal of a practice routine. But the silence, that’s new, and it leaves Yuuri hanging, waiting in anticipation for a normal response, a normal interaction between the two of them. He isn’t expecting this intensity from Victor, the way his blue, blue eyes have pinned Yuuri in place.

“I suppose you aren’t,” Victor says softly, “not if your program today was any indication.”

Yuuri lets out a quiet, shivery breath, and tries for another sip of the vodka. He can still feel Victor’s gaze on him, and as unnerving as it is, it’s exciting as well, to be the center of _his_ attention.

“What’s a Russian toast, Victor?” Yuuri asks out of the blue. He’s clinging to his last threads of clarity, desperate to change the subject and to crush the tangle of thoughts that are beginning to stir in his head. Victor’s eyebrows lift slightly, the barest indication of his surprise, but he smiles just as quickly.

“Za lyubov.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Victor laughs loudly. His cheeks have the slightest touch of pink to them, and he has wrinkles around his eyes when he laughs like this, but he’s lovely, carefree and passionate, as beautiful sitting across from Yuuri at a rickety wooden table as he is on the ice, skating flawlessly.

“Za lyubov,” he repeats, slowly this time, breathless with his laughter.

Yuuri is clumsy with the word. He tries once, and then again and again as Victor demands it. Russian is harsh and clunky when he tries to speak it, not elegant like when Victor lets it roll off his tongue, but Victor seems delighted with the attempts regardless.

Their glasses clink, gently this time. Yuuri downs the last mouthful of alcohol while Victor watches, then sets his empty glass down with a little flourish of triumph. Victor sets his glass down as well, then arches an eyebrow as he pushes the half-empty bottle in Yuuri’s direction.

“I said one,” Yuuri whines.

But he doesn’t protest further when Victor smiles, and pours two more drinks. He doesn’t protest later, either, when Victor drags him up off the floor in the early hours of the morning, and helps him stagger down the hallway to his little bedroom, giggling in his ear all the while. He doesn’t protest when Victor pulls his sweater over his head, and fumbles his glasses back into place, or when he steps close enough to brush his lips over Yuuri’s cheek, and then over his mouth.

“Good night, Yuuri,” Victor whispers. Yuuri’s close enough to taste Victor’s smile for an instant, before Victor pulls away, and slips out of his bedroom with a little wave.

Yuuri presses his fingers to his mouth and stares at the closed door. Somewhere in his alcohol-soaked brain, he is embarrassed. He knows he is.

But right now, he can’t be bothered to care.

**Author's Note:**

> i tried my best with that russian, okay, don't judge me
> 
> [tumblr](downmoonwrites.tumblr.com)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/dyefighter)


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